


I Love Lucy

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Skinner and Pendrell and slippers and gerbils, Grey cat and grilled cheese, a fish tank that burbles, Coconuts, Scrabble and Friday night flings, These are a few of my favorite things.





	I Love Lucy

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

I Love Lucy by Halrloprillalar

SUMMARY: Skinner and Pendrell and slippers and gerbils, Grey cat and grilled cheese, a fish tank that burbles, Coconuts, Scrabble and Friday night flings, These are a few of my favourite things.  
SPOILERS: None.  
RATED: R. M/M slash.  
DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not me.  
NOTES: Originally intended to fall after Male Bondage II, the tone of this story quickly changed from parody to Light Romance With Humorous Elements. So it stands on its own.  
Thanks to Sergeeva for consulting on cats and other story elements!

* * *

I LOVE LUCY  
by Halrloprillalar  
<>

Ten o'clock, two o'clock, six thirty-seven--Skinner's hands gripped the steering wheel perfectly, but the dashboard clock was five minutes fast.

I'll have to fix that when I get home, he decided.

"Your clock is fast," his passenger remarked. "Do you want me to change it?"

"Sure, Agent Pendrell, thank you."

Pendrell was the last to be dropped off in the carpool Skinner had driven to the seminar today. That damned team building seminar, required every two years by Bureau policy, had chewed a whole day out of Skinner's week and seemed hardly relevant to his job.

His either, Skinner thought, glancing at Pendrell who was twiddling with the clock display. These things just *might* be useful for some of those field agents with partnerships like dysfunctional marriages, but for Assistant Directors and lab techies?

Still, for a couple of office boys, we showed them proud. Skinner smiled, remembering. Paired together, the two of them had demolished all the other teams in every Dilbert-esque exercise, piling furniture with precision, fashioning a catapult out of office supplies, writing haiku about each other.

What had Pendrell written about him?

Sitting at his desk  
Pushing papers, signing forms  
Pen is full of blood

Too true, too often. His own composition about Pendrell was less serious:

Let out for the day  
Looks around for lost test tubes  
Blinking in the light

Ironically, their triumph in most exercises was due to the constant bickering of all the other teams, all the field agents who in real life situations performed admirably.

"I turn right here?" Skinner turned to Pendrell, who was, indeed, blinking as a glint of sun flashed off Skinner's glasses and caught him in the eye.

"Yeah, and then left at the big mall."

Skinner negotiated the corner, continuing his driver's-ed wheel handling.

"Sorry to give you such a late start on your weekend, Pendrell."

"Oh, well, I didn't really have much up anyhow." Pendrell glanced at Skinner. "How about you? Big plans?"

"Weekend? ADs don't get weekends. As it is, I probably should go in tomorrow to keep my desk from becoming a fire hazard."

The mall loomed up ahead and Skinner pulled into the left turn lane. He didn't have long to wait for the advance green.

"It was really nice of you to drive," Pendrell said. "My house is number twenty-three." He pointed. "Um...if you're not doing anything, why don't you come in and I'll make you supper? We can watch a movie or something."

Skinner pulled the car into Pendrell's driveway. Automatically, he opened his mouth to refuse, then closed it again to think. Why not? It's not like he had anything else to do and Pendrell had been good, if quiet, company at the seminar. He ought to encourage the agents under his supervision and find out more about them. This seemed like a good opportunity.

"That's kind of you, Pendrell. I'd enjoy that." He switched off the engine and they got out of the car. Pendrell's face was flushed.

I suppose it's a little unnerving to invite the boss over, Skinner thought.

The afternoon sun hung at just the right spot to bounce its rays, all of them, off of the gleaming sides of the little white house and directly into Skinner's eyes. Dazzled, he followed a blob that was possibly Pendrell up the walk and to the front door.

Inside, glowing spots still filled his vision and he stumbled over something directly in his path. The room swayed and his reaching hand found a wall, keeping him upright like the well-evolved homo sapiens he was.

An indignant squawk sounded from down by his feet.

"Lucy!" Pendrell's exclamation was followed by a torrent of murmurs, most of which Skinner couldn't make out.

"...iddle...OK...Goosey-Lucy...upsy...snicker-snack..."

Slowly the room brightened and Skinner's blink revealed Pendrell standing in the hall, crooning to the small cat in his arms.

Illuminated by a dim overhead light, the two made a picture Skinner would never forget. Sandy, reddish hair, long eyelashes fringing lowered lids, Pendrell held the small creature with tapered fingers, soothing it gently. He was Middle-America incarnate.

The cat, on the other hand, was pure evil, malevolence from her slitted yellow gaze oozing over Skinner so palpably that he thought his suit might need cleaning. Her stripy grey cuteness, her perky ears and twitchy tail, her long whiskers and one white paw didn't take him in. He was not fooled by this cat in cat's clothing.

"Lucy always runs right to the door when I come in." Pendrell scratched the top of her head as he spoke. "I guess she wasn't expecting visitors."

Pendrell probably expected him to make some friendly overture to the cat so Skinner stroked Lucy's head a few times. She looked away from him and lashed her tail.

"I'd better feed her right away." Dropping Lucy, Pendrell hung his jacket in a small closet and held out his hand for Skinner's. "I have some spare slippers you can borrow. The floor can be cold sometimes."

From a shelf in the closet, he pulled out two pairs of slippers, the kind grandmothers knit for Christmas every year out of two-tone ugly wool, the kind with the huge pompom on the toe.

"My grandma knits these for me every year, so I have lots. They stretch so they should fit you." Pendrell handed one pair to Skinner, then quickly swapped his shoes for a pair in stunning yellow and blue. "I'll just run get Lucy's dinner, then I'll fix us a snack. Make yourself at home." He disappeared around a corner at the end of the hall.

Skinner stared at the slippers in his hands: mint green and bubble gum pink. The pompoms were enormous, acid-dream rhododendrons, and one of them was coming loose.

If one falls off, he thought, I'll walk funny all night from the weight imbalance. Removing his shoes, he reluctantly pulled them on. I don't *feel* my personality changing--maybe they're safe to wear.

He loosened his tie and drew it over his head before hanging it with his jacket. His neck cracked as he rolled his head from side to side, working out the accumulated stiffness and tension.

He found his way to the kitchen, cheery yellow normality, Formica, and Pendrell at the cutting board.

"As soon as I've got Lucy's dinner, I'll fix us something."

Pendrell mixed chopped kale with tinned cat food, added a spoonful of green liquid, then poured it over rice and popped it in the microwave. The smell was surprisingly appetising.

Lucy sat in front of the microwave, ears alert and tail tip flicking. She did not deign to look at Skinner.

"Sandwiches OK? Why don't you wait in the living room and I'll bring them in."

The small living room was made smaller by the shelves and bookcases lining the walls. Diffuse artificial light created a cozy rather than a claustrophobic atmosphere.

A fish tank glowed and burbled soothingly--so long as he didn't look at it. It was a bi-level, bi-habitat contraption, housing both fish and gerbils. Each level included an aquatic and a terrestrial environment and the levels were connected by tubes so the gerbils and fish could roam up and down.

How do the fish *do* that? he wondered. Some sort of pump maybe.

Most bizarrely, the tubes intersected the opposite environments so that Skinner was watching the fish swim behind the gerbils' exercise wheel and the gerbils crawl through a school of tetras. It was a miracle of rare device, something MC Escher might have designed after reading too many Far Side cartoons late one night.

From the kitchen, Skinner could hear Pendrell tempting Lucy with her choice of desserts, no doubt proffering a milk list.

Turning his back on the maze of twisty passages, Skinner surveyed the not unexpected array of electronics: computer and other space-age gizmos on an overflowing desk, stereo, large screen TV. He supposed the CDs and videos were tucked away inside the closed cabinet beneath the TV.

You can tell a lot about somebody from what's on his bookshelves. Pendrell's were neat, the books clumped more by topic than sorted alphabetically. Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum, Niven & Pournelle, Roger Zelazny, David Brin, and Greg Bear were prevalent, as were bound volumes of Scientific American and Popular Science, decades worth. Kids' books were in another section, a full set of Danny Dunn, a couple of Hardy Boys, a bunch of others Skinner didn't really recognize.

That was one of my favourites, he thought, finding _Farmer_Boy_.

He took the book from the shelf and began to read, the familiar words pulling him back in time and space until he was ten years old, lying on his bed after school, eating an apple, and being pulled longer ago and further away until he was Almanzo Wilder, going out to milk the cows, then coming in for baked beans and potatoes and gravy and ham and pumpkin pie.

A touch on his shoulder and the word "dinner" jerked his head up, looking first for the farm, then for his bedroom as he surfaced through the layers of memory. It was Pendrell with a plate for him: grilled cheese.

"I still love that book," Pendrell said. "I must have read it ten times when I was a kid. One winter I built a bobsled like Almanzo's. But I didn't have oxen to pull it so I made our dog do it. He started avoiding me after that."

"I read it a few times too, when I was young." Skinner's mouth curved into a half-smile as he remembered. "Almanzo was always doing things, and he was allowed so many responsibilities. And of course there was the food. I had to have a snack while I read." He shelved the book again.

"And here's the snack now." Pendrell passed him the plate. "What can I get you to drink? I've got Coke, milk, Rock-a-dile Red Kool-Aid, water of course..."

"Coke for me. I think I've already had my RDA of red food dye."

Skinner settled on the couch and soon Pendrell was back with his Coke. Side by side, the two of them tucked in. The sandwiches were good and assuaged the hunger enhanced by his reading.

"I've been admiring your fish tank-cum-gerbil cage. Where did you find it?"

Pendrell's face lit up with pleasure. "Actually, I made it myself. I always kept fish and gerbils, since I was a kid, but I wondered how it would affect them psychologically to be exposed to each other."

"You made it? I'm impressed. It must have been expensive."

A smudge of grey caught Skinner's eye: Lucy slinking through the door, stopping to look around. He turned his attention back to Pendrell and lost track of her.

"No, I scrounged parts for it here and there. It took a while to collect them, and I'm still adding refinements, like an improved filtration system for the fish and automated medical testing for the gerbils."

"Automated medical testing? How does that work?"

"It's not ready to implement yet, but whenever the gerbils go to eat, their vital signs will be taken, and their weight, et cetera. Their excrement is already checked automatically--I fixed that bit up when I started them on their new food program. I'm trying out a new formula to see if different food can make them smarter."

Suddenly Lucy leapt onto the couch and settled herself between them, her chest and front paws on Skinner's leg. Pendrell stroked the cat absentmindedly as they talked.

"And you devised the formula yourself, I take it?"

"I make the food for the gerbils and the fish in my basement lab. And Lucy's vitamin supplements, of course."

"And your own too?"

"Me?" Pendrell looked surprised. "I never really thought about that. I just eat whatever's around."

Skinner's leg began to vibrate slightly.

"She's purring. She must like you." Pendrell scratched the cat behind the ears.

Lucy's eyes were almost closed, she was drifting away into sleep, she was digging her claws into Skinner's upper thigh. He tried not to wince.

"Anyhow," Pendrell continued, "the gerbils are really interested in the fish, but the fish don't seem to take much notice of the gerbils. I'm not sure why, really. I may try some behavioural studies linking their food supply to interaction with the gerbils. I'll have to build some new devices first though."

"If you run low on parts, I'm sure I could find some coconuts for you, Professor."

Pendrell smiled delightedly. "That's a great idea! I'll add them to the tank system. The Professor was my favourite, but my sister always said I was more like Gilligan."

Sandwiches finished, they sat for a few moments. Skinner moved his head so he could watch Pendrell without staring directly at him. The younger man was fixed on his menagerie, slightly unfocussed, twisting his mouth and furrowing his brow. Skinner wondered at how young he looked like that, so open and...

Vulnerable, Skinner thought. No, I am *not* going that route again. No more Daddy Walter, no more "take your vitamins and then I'll tuck you in." This man is an adult, an FBI agent; he does not need me to take care of him, to cook him dinner, to touch his hair, to press my lips just there against his cheekbone...

Lucy chose this moment to flex her claws again, piercing Skinner's flesh with her tiny daggers. He took his eyes off Pendrell and glared at her, half afraid she had read his mind, half hoping she could read it now.

Perhaps she could. She got to her feet, arched herself into a sine wave, and thumped heavily onto the floor before striding out of the room, tail held high.

The noise brought Pendrell out of his reverie. He turned to Skinner.

"I'm sorry. I zoned out there for a minute. Can I make you another sandwich?"

"Thanks, I've had enough. It was good. But I'll have some more Coke if you've got some."

"Sure." Pendrell picked up the empty plates in one hand, and the glasses with the other, clamping them between his fingers like test tubes in a rack. He left the room.

The murmuring of the fish tank and the whirr of the gerbil wheel soothed Skinner with their white noise, a shell held to his ear, the ocean roar that covered bubbling whispers about Pendrell. He closed his eyes to convince himself he was wearing beach thongs instead of woolly slippers.

A loud crash shattered his sea-side holiday.

"It's OK," Pendrell called. "Nothing broke."

He reentered, carrying full glasses of Coke, this time one in each hand. He passed one to Skinner and their fingers brushed together for a moment. He sat down again, a cat's-width away from Skinner, although the sofa was a long one.

Before he could stop himself, Skinner turned to Pendrell, leaned just a bit closer to him, and smiled.

Oh God, I've probably got "kiss me" written all over my face, he thought. Change that into...into...say something, dammit, before you...

...fall, sink, a fateful trip...

"Thanks for having me in, Professor," he managed. "Your place is very nice."

"Thanks, Skipper." Pendrell's eyes sparkled wide and blue, sunlight on the sea. "It will look better once I get the coconuts up."

"Skipper? I suppose I deserve that."

I should never have started with the nicknames, he decided. They're too intimate.

"Do you want to play Scrabble? Or watch a movie?"

"Scrabble." Skinner didn't hesitate. Movies were far too dangerous, sitting together on the couch, the room dark, fingers touching in the popcorn bowl as the Death Star exploded on the screen. Scrabble would be safer, something to occupy his mind.

Pendrell got up and fished a box out from the back of a shelf. Grabbing a cushion from the couch, he sat on the floor opposite Skinner and set up the board on the coffee table.

"Okay, draw, high letter goes first." Pendrell held out the bag of letters to Skinner.

Skinner rummaged around and pulled out an E. Pendrell got an I.

"Do I keep this one or put it back?"

"Keep it, just draw six more."

Skinner arranged the smooth wooden tiles on his rack and stared at them. Vowels abounded, and he had managed to pull one of the blanks, as well as a V. A word leapt out at him.

"'Naive', blank for A, double letter, double word: 16 points."

Pendrell wrote the score on a pad of paper. "S for Skipper, P for Professor. We're off to a good start."

Skinner grimaced at the letters he'd just drawn. "I have three Es."

"House rules say when you have three of a letter, you can throw one back and draw again." Pendrell peered at the board and his tiles, then carefully laid three down.

"'Zein,' Z on a triple letter, 33 points."

"Zein?" Skinner raised his eyebrows.

"A simple protein. Want to challenge?" Pendrell raised his own brows in response.

"No, I'll take your word for it, or at least the Z. 'Zone,' 13."

"Very good, up to 29."

Skinner hoped he'd get a few minutes to study his letters before it was his turn again, but Pendrell slapped down his tiles almost right away.

"Add my D to make 'zoned,' and 'death,' D on a triple letter, counted twice, H on a triple as well, for a grand total of 40, bringing me to 73."

Skinner looked at his tiles, arranging and rearranging them.

"Sorry, this might take a minute."

"That's OK, take your time."

Out of the corner of his eye, Skinner noticed Lucy rounding the corner and heading for Pendrell. She climbed into his lap and nuzzled up against him, looking for attention.

Pendrell stroked the cat and scratched behind her ears. She settled in, and batted gently at his letters on the rack.

"Sorry, Lucy, it's not our turn yet."

Skinner dragged his attention back to the board, racking his brain for a five letter word that started with H and ended in W. There wasn't one, at least with the letters he had, so couldn't snag that triple letter space he was after.

"'Whorl' for 11 points."

"You're up to 40 now, Skipper. OK, Lucy, what word should we make? Good idea." Lucy pushed the letters off the rack. "No, Lucy, I'll put the letters down. You're the brains and I'm the brawn here. I add an S for 'whorls' and make 'stood' down. S on the triple letter twice, 'stood' on the double word, for 30, which brings me up to 103."

Never say die, Skinner thought. Time to start playing defensively. "Stood" was close to the triple word score in the lower right corner. He didn't stand a chance of getting a really good word in there, but if he could block Pendrell, that would be a help. He slid and rearranged his tiles, clicking them together, and worked out his best option.

"'Em' on the triple word, and 'de' for...15, my big score."

"Nasty, Skipper, you're at 55 now."

They continued the game, Pendrell nimbly forming his unusual and high scoring words, Skinner filling in what he could, Lucy tickling Pendrell's cheek with her tail.

The board was nearly full and the letter bag nearly empty, when Pendrell bent his strawberry blond head over his letters, furrows back in his brow, planning his next linguistic devastation.

Skinner forgot he should be thinking of his next word, forgot he should not be thinking of this man, his bright and convoluted intelligence, his openness and kindness. Skinner's eyes caressed the long-fingered hands, hands that built intricate and delicate machines and dropped glasses, fingers that would spider across his face and push against his breastbone.

He watched those fingers setting the tiles on the board, nudging them carefully straight, and writing down the score.

"Your turn," Pendrell murmured.

Startled, Skinner turned blindly to his rack and tried to think of the most simple of words. But before he could, a blur of grey flew across his vision and there was Lucy, sitting calmly in the middle of the board, washing herself and flicking with her tail any tiles not already scattered.

"Lucy!" Pendrell grabbed her and dumped her on the floor. "Oh God, I'm sorry about that."

"That's OK, she saved me from the ignominy of total defeat. Not that there was any doubt about who would win, though."

They gathered the tiles as they spoke and pitched them into the bag. Pendrell put all the paraphernalia into the box as Skinner returned to the couch. Then, game stashed away, Pendrell joined him, leaving less than a cat's-width between them this time.

I'd estimate a gerbil and a half, Skinner thought, depending on what he's feeding them.

Pendrell twisted at the waist and leaned his elbow on the back of the couch, facing Skinner. His face was flushed and he blinked his eyes erratically.

"So, Skipper, what do you do with your free time? I'm sure you don't usually spend your evenings playing Scrabble with junior agents."

Skinner was nonplussed. He wasn't used to talking about himself. People normally wanted to go on about their own concerns and he was normally happy to let them. He dredged his memory. What *did* he do with his free time?

"When I *have* free time I...mmm...I watch TV, or read one of the current best-sellers. I play squash a couple of times a week. I..." he trailed off, trying to think. "Nothing remarkable, I suppose. Nothing interesting like you."

"You mean nothing weird." A small smile twisted Pendrell's mouth. "But you should take more time. You used to do more stuff, right?"

"I suppose so. Football, camping, more interesting reading...I used to make my own beer. That was fun, experimenting."

"Well, if you need space to set that up again, there are a few corners in my basement that are still free. You're welcome to them." Pendrell blinked rapidly and chewed on his lower lip. "Any other interesting hobbies from your past?"

"No...well..." Skinner felt his cheeks growing warm. "Operetta in high school. Gilbert and Sullivan."

Pendrell broke into a delighted smile. "That's so cool! Sing something for me. From 'Pinafore' or 'Pirates.'"

"No, I shouldn't have mentioned it. I never sing anymore."

The younger man was leaning closer now, ready to insist, to tease. His body heat warmed Skinner. His hair was ruffled on one side, and wanted Skinner to smooth it down. His eyes were wide and blue and wanted Skinner to close them gently with his fingertips. His lips were parted and nervously gnawed and wanted Skinner to...

No, Skinner told himself. No, don't take advantage.

Pendrell's fingers pressed lightly on his biceps.

"What, never?"

"No, never." Don't do it, Walter, no, never. If not for the courage of the fearless crew...

"What, never?"

Hardly ever, he said, but he couldn't talk because Pendrell was kissing him.

It was awkward, as first kisses are, and their teeth bashed and Skinner's glasses smudged and they made a funny sucking sound and Skinner brushed his hand over the evening sandpaper of Pendrell's cheek and sank fathoms deep, drowning.

Then they were up for air. Pendrell's face glowed crimson, burning.

"Oh, God, sir, I'm...sorry." He looked sorry. He looked glad. He looked panicked and rumpled and beautiful.

This was the moment, Skinner's last chance to pretend he didn't want this and back out. He could, if he tried. The curtain would fall across his face, his voice would level and flatten, and it would be business as usual, it's all right, but I'd better go now, thanks for the supper, we won't mention it.

This was the moment and as Skinner struggled with himself, Lucy jumped into Pendrell's lap, ears back, and hissed. Some territorial instinct took over, and deep within his throat Skinner growled at her.

It startled them all. Lucy gave him a final glare before scurrying out of the room. Pendrell let out a gusty breath, beyond speech.

"She'll have to try harder than that to scare me off." Skinner took off his glasses and rubbed them on his shirt-sleeve, then laid them carefully on the coffee table.

"It's...?"

"It's OK. It's more than OK." Show, don't tell.

The second kiss was better, slow, sweet, tasting, testing. Pendrell splayed his hand across Skinner's face, palm soft, fingertips pressing hard against his cheekbone. Skinner threaded his own fingers through the younger man's hair.

The kiss went on and on, building a tension without urgency. Skinner slid his mouth away from Pendrell's lips and down his neck to the collarbone. Then he pulled back.

"One thing," he said. "These have to go. They're distracting me." He pulled off the garish slippers he wore and stuffed them under the couch. "You too."

He took Pendrell's left foot and slid the slipper off, then rubbed the ball of the foot with his thumb. "I hope your feet won't get cold."

"If they do, will you warm them for me?"

"Yes." He took the last slipper and sent this pair after the first. "Anything you like."

The third kiss improved upon the second, drawing them closer and rearranging them until they lay together on the couch, side by side and almost falling off. They pressed together, clung to each other, touching and caressing, as desire rolled over them in a warm tropical sea.

It was hard to tell when the third kiss ended and the fourth began. Skinner's searching hands found Pendrell's shirt untucked and slipped inside, counting each vertebra, losing track, enumerating them again. The younger man moved deliciously against him, undulating in his grasp.

Pendrell sighed and murmured against his neck. "I've been thinking all day about how that would feel."

"And? How does it feel?"

"Now that I'm feeling it, I can't think."

"You mean I've managed to bring..." Skinner gasped as teeth worried his shoulder. "To bring your IQ down to normal levels?"

"Lower...I meant my...mmm...IQ, actually, but don't stop."

"So, doing this," Skinner flexed his fingers, "and this," moved them, "and this," squeezed, "stops you from thinking?"

"Well, yeah. Can you think when I do *this*?"

Skinner couldn't but he had to pretend. He had an image to keep up.

"I can think of *something*..."

"But that's not using your higher brain functions."

"Let's experiment. You tell me, hrm, the Planck constant, and I'll kiss you here." Skinner pressed his mouth to the hollow of Pendrell's throat and touched the salty skin with his tongue.

"How...how many places?"

"Five will do."

"Uh...6 point 6...26..."

Skinner sucked the beating pulse once for each digit.

"...17, no round to 8, by 10 to the negative 34th power..."

"You know, that's very arousing." Skinner pushed back enough to unbutton Pendrell's shirt and spread it open. "Try Avogadro's number." He trailed kisses down to one tan nipple, already peaking, but stopped short of taking it in.

"OK, um, 6 point," he gasped as Skinner began to tease with tongue and teeth. "6 point 0220...45...by 10 to the 23rd power."

Skinner shifted so he was kneeling on the floor, mouth at Pendrell's navel, tongue swirling, hands at Pendrell's waist, on his belt buckle.

He drew back and fumbled with the belt. "If you give me pi to twenty-five places, there's no telling what I might do." Belt undone, he started on the waistband.

"No telling?"

"No telling, just showing. Or if you can't remember pi, we'll just play another game of Scrabble."

"Pi. 3 point 1415..." He lifted his hips as Skinner slid his trousers and briefs down so they pooled at his ankles.

"926...unh." He stopped speaking for a moment as Skinner sucked him in, scraping gently with his teeth, hands gripping Pendrell's thighs.

"5...3...5...8...9..."

With each digit, Skinner pulled with practised suction, tasting the drops of hot arousal.

I feel like I'm in high school, he thought, under my science teachers's desk. His own body was responding almost painfully but he concentrated on the task at hand, enjoying Pendrell's pleasure.

"7...9...4...no, 3...238...46...2643...uh, round, round up to 4."

It took Skinner a moment to realise Pendrell had stopped speaking, and a moment more to decide what to ask for next. He pulled away.

"No, don't stop!" Pendrell was frantic.

"Periodic table," Skinner said with a long lick. He bent to resume his luscious work as Pendrell stuttered back into speech.

"Hydrogen...helium...lithium...ahh...beryllium."

His hands found Skinner's head and held it, palms hot against the temples, fingers pulsing with the rhythm of Skinner's mouth, breakers on the beach.

"Boron...carbon...nitrogen...oxygen...my God...fluorine..."

He tried to thrust but Skinner's strong hands pinned him to the couch.

"Neon...uh...sodium...magnesium...aluminum...aluminum..."

Silicon, Skinner thought, come on, silicon. And Pendrell came, filling Skinner's mouth with his sea-foam, salt and hot.

"Siliconphosphorussulpherchlorineargon."

Skinner swallowed, smiled, and rose stiffly to sit on the couch again.

Pendrell drifted his hand softly over the red marks he'd left on Skinner's head. "That was amazing. I can't believe you made me say all that stuff."

Skinner caught the hand and held it, pressing a kiss into the palm.

"Well, Professor, you know I'm failing chem and I'm on the football team and if I don't pass, they'll kick me off. I'd do *anything* for a B-."

Pendrell's eyes gleamed. "Anything?"

"Anything in the bedroom," Skinner amended. "My back's not good for much more couch time."

"With a bad back, you'll be no good for football. Come on, who knows? You might get an A."

They went to the bedroom and shut the door. Lucy paced outside for a few minutes but then she went away to show she didn't really care that much, anyway.

After Skinner had earned his A, they lay together, drowsing and kissing and waiting for the wave of sleep that would carry them off.

"Walter?"

"Mmmm...what?"

"You never sang to me."

"I don't sing any more, Daniel, I told you that."

"After I recited all those elements and digits of pi for you, you won't sing for me? I can still reduce your grade to a D-, you know."

Sing what? Skinner thought, what lullaby for this incredible occasion? Every song seemed to have too much significance or not enough.

"Please, Skipper?" Pendrell nipped at the tender skin of Skinner's neck.

Some things are fate, he decided. As softly as he could manage, he sang, his cheek warm against Pendrell's hair, his feet cold at the end of the bed where the covers had slipped off.

     Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,  
     A tale of a fateful trip,  
     That started from this tropic port  
     Aboard this tiny ship.

     The mate was a mighty sailing man,  
     The skipper brave and sure.  
     Five passengers set sail that day  
     For a three hour tour, a three hour tour.

     The weather started getting rough,  
     The tiny ship was tossed.  
     If not for the courage of the fearless crew,  
     The Minnow would be lost, the Minnow would be lost.

     The ship set ground on the shore  
     Of this uncharted desert isle,

     With Gilligan, the skipper too,  
     The millionaire and his wife,  
     The movie star,  
     The professor and Mary Ann,  
     Here, on Gilligan's Isle.

Pendrell was asleep before he finished.

So the night rolled into morning.

As Skinner surfaced through the layers of his dreams towards the pale dawn light, he had trouble drawing breath, a weight was on his chest, pushing him down. Before he woke enough to panic, he heard and felt the rumble. Lucy was sitting on him, purring. One of them must have left the door open after getting up in the night.

His first inclination was to push her off, but he stroked her instead. It was rather pleasant, actually. Her fur was warm and soft and she leaned into his hand. Slitted eyes watched him, but without the malevolence of yesterday, just the usual superior gaze of a creature who knows she's a higher life form.

Pendrell rolled over in his sleep and rested his head at Skinner's side. Skinner stroked his hair too and the young man, impossibly boyish, smiled sweetly. The three of them lay there together for long, still minutes.

Then the demands of the morning could no longer be ignored and Skinner got up. As respectfully as he could, he lifted Lucy off and tucked her beside Pendrell, then headed off to the bathroom.

Hot water sluiced over his body, waking him fully. After his shower, he shaved with Pendrell's electric razor. He could still feel a slight burr when he rubbed his cheek and wished he had his usual blade along. His mouth was gummy, so he snooped through the bathroom cabinet and found an amazing five wrapped toothbrushes. He picked out one with a bright red handle.

Brushing carefully, Skinner studied himself in the clear patches of the steamy mirror. A few marks lingered from last night, but below his collarbone where they wouldn't show. He touched them lightly, remembering.

Spit, rinse, and he was done his ablutions. He looked at the brush in his hand, then, smiling to himself, slotted it next to Pendrell's in the small rack.

Back in the bedroom, he dressed silently. He disliked wearing the same clothes as yesterday, but there was no way anything of Pendrell's would fit him. He left the shirt unbuttoned and rolled up the cuffs.

The kitchen glowed golden with the morning light. He put on a pot of coffee and drank a glass of milk while it brewed. At the sound of the refrigerator door, Lucy appeared and slid back and forth across his legs. Skinner poured her a saucer of milk, hoping this wouldn't upset some experimental data of Pendrell's.

A snorkelling sound followed by quiet signalled the coffee was done. He took a cup into the living room and sat on the couch. This was the morning after analysis then, the time he was supposed to spend deciding what to do about the night before, weighing pros and cons and making mental lists and feeling like he shouldn't really get involved just now.

He lifted the mug and inhaled the morning glory fragrance, then took a sip. Black, scalding, and bitter, the coffee tasted like heaven and hell. He couldn't feel less like analysing, he just wanted to sit, to be.

The gerbils slept, half burrowed in shavings, while the fish swam behind them. The tank burbled softly and Lucy jumped onto the couch for an early morning nap. Skinner drank his coffee.

The house was chilly and his thin socks let the cold right through. Absently, he fished beneath the couch and pulled out the lurid pink and green slippers. He slid them on and rested his feet on the coffee table.

They're not so bad, he thought. I could get used to them.

F I N I S

Do you have Gilligan's Island stuck in your head now? Write me at <> and let me know.


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